


the biggest sob story

by liuyongen



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Bones, F/M, Getting Back Together, Hospitals, Post-Break Up, Serious Injuries, miguel is a nurse who watches hector pine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 07:23:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14303718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liuyongen/pseuds/liuyongen
Summary: Hector lays on hot tar, rubble and glass poking into his shirt, the even hotter fumes shooting out from every possible crevice of that second hand piece of metal junk burn his open wounds, they feel molten, close to acidic that it stings his eyes and makes them water, he thinks maybe this is what it feels like to actually die.





	the biggest sob story

According to Newton’s second law of motion,–the force acting on an object is equal to the mass of that object times its acceleration–Hector is  _definitely_  not going to make it out alive by the time he catches the glimpse of headlights coming closer. At a rate so fast he freezes on the spot, the view of a panicky driver in the midst of shoving hard against the breaks, honking over and over as he prepares his body to be sent into the quiet bliss of death. But then again one of the greatest, most influential minds of all time had never been in a side-impact collision with a car so maybe he’ll just have to hope that he makes it to the bar tonight.

And what a story it’s going to be, being able to see the reactions when he brings up something that isn’t related to his breakup or the wallowing aftermath of it–unfinished songs about how much it hurts, empty Corona bottles strewn across his apartment, and a permanent five o clock shadow–but what happens isn’t exactly as what the movies make it seem. It isn’t a ‘close your eyes and walk towards the light’ nor is it a ‘I’m a walking ghost attending my own funeral’ type of experience because they leave out the part where death feels like absolute  _agony_.  

The bursting pain that ripples through what’s left of his chest. His collarbones come apart under the first punch of pressure, one rib after the other being forced to crack and crumble, the air getting knocked right out of his bloated lungs when his hip gets busted by an almost loose bumper. Hector lays on hot tar, rubble and glass poking into his shirt, the even hotter fumes shooting out from every possible crevice of that second hand piece of metal junk burn his open wounds, they feel molten, close to acidic that it stings his eyes and makes them water, he thinks maybe this is what it feels like to  _actually_  die.

By the time he is pretty much sure of it, his last second on this earth–the end of his life, there’s a mask being pulled over his face that smells really generic, whatever synthetic rubber would smell like, he knows it’s rubber because at least there are nerves still working in his frantic brain to decipher that. Although the number of blue-gloved hands waving over his face are slowly depleting, blurring into little blobs by the second. There’s a pinprick in his forearm that disappears before he could mention it, replaced by a surge of ‘liquid-calm’ they just jabbed into him, coursing through his veins. He’s losing sight quicker and quicker.

Sooner or later he’ll make sense of it but right now this ambulance is moving too fast, these blobs ask way too many questions for someone who’s choking on blood–“How many fingers do I have up?” or “What is your name señor?”–and he only remembers black after that.

Everything is still new and he can’t really wrap his head around it because there really isn’t a person in this world to be as unlucky, miserable and astoundingly  _stupid_  as him to lose not only the love of his life but a working tibia bone as well, all in a span of a week. This large man in a lab coat who he now knows is his appointed neurologist–the pain medication kicks in and he giggles at the made up name ‘Dr. Brain’–gives him all the gritty details with x-rays from his skull down to his feet and shows all this data (with decimal points and such) which magically came from just three vials of blood.

Hector supposes it gets better because he used to have a tube stuck down his throat but now he has an IV bag that gets replaced every few hours by Miguel–a new nurse on placement who is way too cheerful at six in the morning–and a cabled television (you could be him one day!)

Also, he gets visitors now, more like he is  _allowed_  to have them. The first person that he gets to see–after the whole ‘not sure if you’re dead’ quarantine phase has peaked and passed–unannounced and badly timed when he’s in the middle of choking on the multiple tablets Miguel leaves in a tiny cup, is none other than the girl who threw the whole three years of their relationship out the window as if  _none_  of it ever happened, kind of reminiscent of his latest situation since he has about two CAT scans a week and probably some severe memory loss, ‘Traumatic Amnesia’ they say. (Dr. Brain’s words, not his.)

Then again he doesn’t think any amount of car crashes could replicate the feeling of his heart ripping into two whole pieces at the words “I think we should break up.” That instant need to hurl every bit of overwhelming emotion that leaks and spills over his thoughts like an overflowing bathtub is certainly one he shall (was intending to) take to the grave. Nor could memory loss ever take away the moment she turned away, back facing him, a sight he is so familiar with he would be able to see in from a mile–in the dark–and leaves without another word.

“You’re alive.” she said, taking in the entire map of scars and scabs on the parts that aren’t covered by the flimsy hospital gown and the nice little touch of purple underneath his eye. Scratches over his arms, all in red and then some in lighter pink, raw skin and tender flesh being picked out when they remove each and every stray piece of cracked glass, limbs now folded and covered by thick layers of gauze and cotton.

Hector picks at a bowl of oatmeal, at least he thinks it’s oatmeal when it looks more like a congealed mash of two minute microwaved pies–hot to the touch but still very much frozen at the core–and chicken soup, all lumpy with a cooled skin that would form at the top if he leaves it be. He couldn’t have possibly missed the knock at the door or her padded footsteps but he did anyway, maybe that’s what being quarantine and painkillers does to you, surrounded by white noise and distant beeps here and there until he becomes more and more numb to it, but Imelda might just play it off as spite towards her.

(Yet, Hector would never be that kind of person so it could be the first thing.)

“Very much so.” He said it without much thought after he swallows a spoonful–like it’s still sinking in and he has yet to believe it–as he lays back on a hoisted pillow, gesturing to the multiple machines with electro pads that are stuck onto his chest. He tries not to look at her directly, only getting the flash of orange from large visitors pass dangling by her collar, eye contact wasn’t ever his strong suit and neither was meeting an ex-girlfriend.

Not paying attention to the way she stiffens up at the sound of his hoarse voice, swallowing a thick lump down her throat while channelling every effort to not cry when all she wants to do is just that. Maybe it wouldn’t even work when it’s the only thing she’s been doing this whole time, every last drop of perspiration wrung out from her body in hourly doses because god forbid she replays the moment she told the man she’s in love with–now  _heavily_  influenced by morphine and almost lost his life–that she wanted to end it all. Texts, calls, dates, and especially the make out sessions (which left a sad pang of loss in her soul.)

“Do you need anything? I could get you some juice.” She wants to try, settling in with the light stuff first, rubbing her palms over her thighs. Whether or not he could drink something other than pure lukewarm water was already a question. The tension so thickly muddled by the huge elephant of a break up in the room. Somehow not that important when it’s being shoved away every time hector’s heart monitor beeps, a reminder that him–living, breathing, just  _being here_  was all she really needs.

Imelda doesn’t know why his body had to be crushed with bones being broken,  _fractured_ , practically splitting right down the middle and all while fighting for each and every inhale of breath for her to realise that.

“Don’t worry about it, they gave me this button if I needed anything-“ Hector brings up the remote with a wire attached to his bed, glowing bright red was said button with a nurse icon on it. “-I don’t use it too often though, there are more important things than getting me juice.”

Her heart lunges a little at this, when Hector is literally a top priority patient, one with his own ward and team of doctors who have clipboards and files littered with data, tests being done every minute, samples being collected like he’s some lab rat, nurses who stop her from seeing him for the longest time because ‘it isn’t the right time’ or that ‘he’s not in the best condition to see you today’, this man who she wishes to embrace and kiss every inch of pain or pressure away– _thinks he’s less important than a glass of fucking juice._

Hector decides that oatmeal isn’t really the best meal for his first day back on solid foods, pushing it to the side which gives him a clear view of Imelda, in her more casual look with skinny jeans and ankle boots. She broke things off in her work outfit–blazer, pencil skirt, all that jazz–and he’s maybe sort of glad because at least she wasn’t  _comfortable_  doing it. “Thanks for coming by the way, I don’t get many visitors. Just a few twenty-something people. No biggie.” He shrugs, forcing a smile and out of courtesy, he settles his eyes on her at the same time, instantly regretting it when they are as red as her lipstick on date night.

“I’m literally the first person who gets to see you.” He sits on the phrase ‘gets to’ for a little longer than usual, as if this was some priority access type thing. Imelda crosses her arms, burying the urge to roll her eyes, expression stony (‘classic Imelda’ he thought.) Lifting an eyebrow at the way he struggles, face twisting from confused to flustered at getting caught hiding behind a terrible lie. They’ve been together since he left college but being passive and one-upping her still seemed like the best way to work around this dilemma. He would kick himself in the mouth if he wasn’t bedridden. God when he thought about it–he was  _pathetic._

“You don’t know that. Did Miguel tell you something he shouldn’t have?” He questions, pointing a finger to the open door by the corner. Hector might have spilled a little bit too much information on their relationship to a total stranger but he  _trusted_  this boy. The long days cooped up in this hospital not only added his neediness for companionship but the urge to overshare like he always does, especially since he believes all of this wouldn’t really matter in the long run, breakups usually are a dead end aren’t they?

The last thing he wanted was for all of his sedated rambles to come bursting out like a joke Pringles can, biting him in the ass.

She quirks the corner of her mouth slightly, the hint that Hector– _her Hector_ , the same guy who tried to always impress her with thirty-second made up songs and the way looked up names of dead painters so he wouldn’t look dumb–humorous, down to earth Hector was still somewhere underneath battered bruises and cuts leaves her feeling lighter. A weight being lifted off her heart, “I’ve been here the whole time. They called me that night because I was listed as your emergency contact at the bar plus I’m the only one on your speed dial-“ Then she remembers they are no longer together and that weight kind of drops back down, this time ten times heavier.

“-I’ve been waiting to see you.”

She’s not just a visitor because no visitor stays after they’ve been told to go home, bringing along fresh t-shirts he left at her place (that weirdly still smell like him no matter how many times she’s placed them through the washer)  and going as far as to bring along her cat because she’s so desperate at this point. To make him happy, to  _cure_ him however she can because it sure as hell wouldn’t be any worse than leaving him.

During the times where she spends about eight long hours laying on a couch, re-reading National Geographic and Women’s Weekly from two years back while the coffee cups pile up until it resembles the leaning tower, she peeps into the tiny slither of curtain and catches the glimpse of Hector laying on his back, having a dreamless sleep, his heartbeat loud and clear,  mellow and rhythmic, just like how it sounds when she lays on his chest and they were safe. Other times he’s awake but groaning and crying in cold sweat because it’s too much, Miguel the nurse sees her again for the third time that week, shaking his head in lieu of voicing it out  _‘It’s a bad day.’_

Imelda  _knows_  Hector and somewhere deep in her thoughts she is sure that isn’t just because of a car accident.

Hector doesn’t say anything but nods along anyway, piecing one load of information after the other as he comes to a conclusion, one that she hopes is a good one, where she isn’t the mean ex who’s only here because he’s hurt but because she wants to– _genuinely_. Wholeheartedly. “You must have been scared.” He said, turning to look at her over half-lidded eyes, already looking more exhausted than that time they had their charity marathon phase.

“More than anything.”

He smiles fondly, knowingly, “You were always the over thinker. Worrying about everything for the both of us.” As if all the different times of her rubbing her temples and sighing really loudly was flooding his mind, proving time and time again that he was always a ‘big picture’ guy and maybe choosing to stick to performing and making drinks past three in the morning wasn’t something of a deal-breaker for him. Neither was putting those things before his own girlfriend.

“At least worrying didn’t make me forget about us-” She really doesn’t want to do this, not when she already feels like shit, even more so when he probably feels worse. Hector wasn’t wrong though and this isn’t a contest of who has it worse–‘The Biggest Sob Story’–but it’s been too long since she’s seen him and the hidden gallons of tears are finally spilling past her eyes in hot streaks, lashes clumping together and chest heaving. “-I mean, I only ever saw you when the sun was coming up!”

To say he was shocked would be an understatement, add a little bit of hurt and anger to that cocktail and it’s pretty much how he feels. “Well, you ended us just like that without even talking about it. News flash; that’s not what we’re supposed to do!” Not to mention the fact that he should stop flailing his hands around so much because they ache like a bitch.

Imelda feels her stomach churn, relishing in the way her cheeks start to heat up and her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. “Would you have listened? Be honest with me Hector, you would have told me to not worry, that everything was just going to be fine–“ She wipes fiercely at a new set of tears with the back of her hand.

“–Well guess what, everything is now a mess and it fucking sucks! It’s so  _unfair._  And I hate that this happened to you.”

The thing about Imelda is that where Hector’s emotions are continuously shown, displayed and ever-changing, healthily releasing so much of it that he doesn’t know what feeling pent up is even like, hers are more reserved, all that sadness, her pain, every ounce of resentment and guilt gets stored up to the brim of a very deep and vast ocean of feelings, rumbles of confrontation or arguments hit her in the worst places, harder than any tsunami. Wave after wave of immense frustration and disappointment are soaked into the sleeves of her shirt and cheeks.

She watches the lift and drop of his chest as he breathes, his skin damp from the sticky sweat, he leans forward, flinching when a few joints crack. “I’m sorry-” Hector whispers, reaching out to grasp her trembling hands, knuckles white and damp from the tears. His hands are warm, calloused and tightly coiled with surgical tape.

“-I should have worried more.” Hector sweeps a finger through the loose strands of hair, watching her cheeks puff out and deepen in colour. Imelda steps a little closer and cradles his head in her free hand, absorbing every little detail of his face, she pushes back his hair, admiring the scars on his forehead. Pressing her own to his and cherishing the tactile feel of skin, how he’s so warm and close to her, the feeling oh so familiar yet brand new when each and every passing second without him is already wasted time.

“I missed you.” She breathes, every part of her hanging off each word with heartache.

Feeling his smile curve up on the side of her lips, she can’t help but return the favour in leaving the slightest peck on his. Slow, languid, but chaste. The rough taste of iron and bitter syrup is imprinted in her mind.

The heart monitor gets silenced by their continued words of exchanged love, all so sweet and enriching compared to papery bland oatmeal, Hector’s eyes crinkle when his laughs erupts from the deepest parts of him for the first time. IV bag continuing to drip for the next hour or so and Miguel the nurse maybe gives it a minute or two before he’s yet to replace it again when he feels like he might be intruding on a private moment.

Although, he’ll remind himself to mention that Hector never made it to a dead end, nor was it a death of such.

But just a little accident.

**Author's Note:**

> this is from a post-break up au prompt post and was chosen by an anon, thank you to those who have kept up with the inactivity and for being a continuous support, leave a kudos or a comment or come say hi @imjuanita on tumblr


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